


Here for you, in fear and bad luck

by Ravatta



Category: Dota 2
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, No Context, Oneshot, Panic Attack, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravatta/pseuds/Ravatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rizzrack has a breakdown, and Boush is the only one around who can help. A self-indulgent hurt/comfort snippet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here for you, in fear and bad luck

When he was chosen as spokeperson, Boush had been glad, if anything because it finally let him walk away from the war room.

That was good. Being squeezed in the same space with a dozen of screaming, angry people would have been stifling even if it wasn't buried deep underground- and after Tresdin's fist had made the makeshift conference table tremble in response to his request to leave for air, he hadn't asked for a break.

That was over two hours earlier. A lot can happen in two hours that are mostly filled by loud arguing between tired, stressed out people. Especially when they're dealing with a rulebook older than even the older of them.

 

He pushed the massive doors open and then closed behind him. The slab of wood muffled the low rumble of Rooftrellen's voice mid-sentence as he looked around the corridor.

Sure enough, the accused hadn't left or moved an inch since they'd locked the door. Not that Boush expected him to.

Rizzrack had hardly changed position from when he'd been ordered to sit, on a makeshift bench near the door. Deathly pale, he was staring intently at the floor, holding his helmet with white-knuckled fingers. The Tinker couldn't tell if that complete, terrified stillness was an improvement over... Earlier. Especially as he'd already seen all those signs before.

He coughed into his fist and the pink keenkin tensed visibly, fingers clenching hard against the edge of the helmet, the muscles in his jaw visibly twitching.

"So wha-wha, what'd they say?" he finally asked, still staring intently at the ground.

Boush dug one hand deep into his pocket and retrieved the pipe and a small cloth bag of tobacco, which had been banned ten minutes into the meeting. Holding the pipe between his teeth, he began packing it just to give himself something to do as he steeled himself.

"You have two weeks. Two fights." The Tinker sighed, feeling a heavy weight in his chest as the words left his mouth. This time, Rizzrack turned to face him, bug-eyed and paler than ever.

"We reviewed the rulebook and unless someone tries to destroy their own faction's Ancient, or the vote is unanimous, this means they have two more fights to convince the others of..." he cut himself off and coughed in the fist still holding the pipe.

"Anyway. It's plenty of time to... Change everyone's minds on this subject. Some of us voted in your favor. All us Keen folk want you to stay, Lyralei and Aiushtha as well..." The sound of boots on the ground stopped him and he looked up from the pipe. The Timbersaw, now standing in front of him and looking smaller than ever, nodded and muttered what could have been a thanks as much as a curse and turned away, walking slowly and unsteadily and bracing himself with the moist walls of the corridor.

Boush just watched for a few moments, following the other's unsteady movements.

A loud crash from inside the appointed conference room- really the mess hall - raised his attention and in the time it took to listen closely for possible fights inside, another sound came from the corridor.

Knees against the hard stone floor, and the horrible choking and wet splash of someone puking on the ground.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Boush was by his keenkin's side, mind racing for a way to help.

Rizzrack was slumped on the side against the wall, green bile running down the surface of one glove and pooling on the ground. He coughed and doubled over again, and Boush could only help by grabbing the helmet perched on top of his head before it fell smack in half-digested salad. His mind raced as it connected the dots, and he realized that what he mistook for calm, just a few moments ago, was just the fellow keen's mind in a short standby before the total meltdown.

"Ok... Ok, ok... Come here." The Tinker kneeled and extended one hand, holding it there until the smaller creature was done puking and took his hand to get up.

"Come with me. My shop it's really close, and there's some water there. Just follow me, ok?"

Without thinking, he found himself speaking in a slow, hushed tone, walking at a snail's pace and letting his keenkin balance on his arm and shoulder.

 

It was a relatively short walk, but it seemed to take forever. For once, Boush was glad to have the room closest to the constantly noisy mess hall, because at that moment he was seriously doubting Rizzrack's ability to walk anywhere else. His breathing increasingly quicker and shallower as his already weak grip on his mind slipped. Pushing the door to the shop open with a shoulder and unlocking it, he guided the smaller one in.

The Tinker's shop wasn't a room per se, as many on that side of the underground complex were. Rather, the wood and stone walls of the hallway formed only one wall of the room, the rest moist, cold rock of a natural cave. A glass pane had been used to block any bats or other creatures from flying through the only opening, but it had relatively fresh air compared to the rest, which he needed considering he hardly left the room outside of practice and their weekly fights with the Dire side.

The walls and floor were covered with shelves, machinery and half-finished contraptions, tools and bolts and screws littering the ground, moist books forming piles and page upon page of paper scrolls covered in hasthly scribbled notes made the room impossible to cross without stepping in anything.

"Here, i've got some clean water here and... I can let you borrow a shirt if you want... Everything i own smells a bit moldy but it's better than nothing." Even so, he had to gently guide the man to the large bucket and wait until he started trying to wipe off the vomit from his shirt and arms.

After a few minutes, Rizzrack's hands went to cover his eyes and he slowly slumped between the floor and the cave wall by the water bucket, and for a moment Boush found himself relieved thinking the worst was probably over.

Even if he could still see the smaller keen's chest raising and falling in quick bursts. Even if he was still pale and twitchy and erratic. He didn't expect any of what came next.

"t...two weeks..." Boush heard through the half-choked mumbling. Then what sounded like a short prayer or "oh no". and then the mumbling turned to short bursts of laughter, his shoulders shaking, whole body twitching with a sort of hysterical energy that had nowhere to go and seemed to just cycle back over and over again. That horrifying broken laughter grew in volume and pitch until it turned to a sort of shriek of despair and to Boush's horror he saw the kin's eyes staring at nothing as he pulled both hands towards his chest, nails leaving white indentations from forehead to neck, trails that turned a deep purple in a moment. Shaking and howling in what could only be described as violent, primal terror, Rizzrack took to scratching his own cheeks and forehead hard, working with such intense, feverish energy that Boush had to force himself not to step away from the hysterical creature, torn between the fear of being attacked and a sense of pity so strong it hurt.

Blood began to pool from the criss-crossing scratches and under the Timbersaw's nails, now full of torn shreds of skin.

That terrifying scream died down into a labored breathing as the machinist went through a moment of clarity- his eyes focusing for a moment as he saw, really SAW, the blood-stained fingers he'd been clawing at his face with, and in that moment everything screeched to a halt.

Tinker had crouched down in front of him, every muscle tense in case he needed to give him more space, and almost fell on his back when Rizzrack looked up at him, making focused eye contact for the first time in what felt like days. Hands shaking, trails of blood running from his cheekbones and forehead and dribbling down his cheek and into his mouth... He looked up at Boush, like a terrified child.

"help me..." he whispered, hoarse.

"please... oh god, oh god, help me..."

Boush only had a fraction of a second to decide what to do, and he had no hesitation. He sweeped the smaller keen up from the side of the wall, taking his place, and hugged him with all his might, bloodied, muscular arms reciprocating around his neck and shoulder with such feverish intensity it hurt.

It was such a primal, violent contact, he wasn't surprised when he felt sharp teeth dig in his shoulder, as if the smaller man needed to hold onto him in any way possible, lest he be abandoned.

"I've got you. I've got you, don't worry."

the heavy breathing turned to a scream again, but this time it was short, hoarse, a roar of frustration rather than terror and hysteria.

And slowly, that vice grip around Boush's shoulders gave way ever so slightly and the shallow, irregular breathing got deeper, the panicked breaths turning to broken sobs. Like an abandoned child.

Boush found his own mouth running, filling the air with reassurances and half-sentences that were more important for the way he said them, slow and rythmic and calming.

He sat there, cradling the other and calming him down with his voice, his touch and his presence, and little by little even the sobs gave way to a tired, more regular breathing.

the Tinker just sat there, muttering reassurances long after Rizzrack had collapsed out of exhaustion, breathing finally slow and regular against Boush's own chest.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of a larger story i wound up never writing. The plan was to chronicle Boush and Rizzrack's budding relationship in the two week trial to see if the Radiant side's Timbersaw was still fit to fight with the others. Hence the lack of detail.


End file.
